Madame Bertier
"When the bitter north wind blows,
Very red is Baba's nose,
Very cold are Baba's toes:
When the north wind's blowing.
When the north wind's blowing!"
So sang Monica, rather out of tune, as she reached home, in a scratchy
mood, on the first afternoon of the January term, and hurried up to the
fire.
"I don't like school! I _don't_ like it!" she proclaimed to a
sympathetic audience of Rosemary, Cousin Elsie, and Richard (who was
home on leave). "I call it cruelty to send me every single day to sit
for five whole hours at a horrid little desk, stuffing my head with
things I don't want to know, and never _shall_ want to know, if I live
to be a hundred. _Why_ must I go?"
"Poor kiddie!" laughed Richard. "You've got it badly! It's a disease I
used to suffer from myself. They called it 'schoolophobia' when I was
young. They cured it with a medicine called 'spinkum-spankum', if I
remember rightly--one of those good old-fashioned remedies, don't you
know, that our grandmothers always went by."
"You're making fun of me!" chafed Monica. "And I do really mean what I
say. It's cold at school, and horrid, and Miss Davis is always down on
me, and I hate it. Why must I go?"
"And _why_ must I go back to the trenches?"
"_Don't!_"
"All serene! You and I'll find a desert island together somewhere, and
live upon it for the rest of our lives. You see, they'd never have us
back again if we deserted. We'd have to stop on our island for
evermore!"
"I thought you liked The Gables?" yawned Elsie. "Vivien does. I'm sure
it's a very nice school."
"Oh, Vivien! I dare say! It's all very fine for monitresses. But when
you're in the Third Form, and your desk's on the cold side of the room,
it's the limit. Yes, I dare say I _shall_ get chilblains if I sit close
to the fire, _but I don't care_!"
"The first day's always a little grizzly," agreed Lorraine, who had
followed Monica to the hearth-rug and joined the circle of
fire-worshippers. "One hates getting into harness again after the
holidays. I believe Rosemary's the only one of us who really enthuses.
You'll be gone, too, by next week, Quavers! But I suppose you really
_enjoy_ singing exercises, and having professors storming at you."
"Of course I do," said Rosemary, with a rather unconvincing note in her
voice.
Lorraine glanced at her quickly, but the little brown head was lowered,
and shadows hid the sweet face. Lorraine could not understand Rosemary
these holidays. She had returned from her first term at the College of
Music seemingly as full of enthusiasm as ever, and yet there was "a
something". She gave rapturous accounts of pupils' concerts, of singing
classes, of fellow-students, of rising stars in the musical world, of
favourite teachers, of fun at the College and at the hostel where she
boarded. She had made many new friendships, and was apparently having
the time of her life.
"From her accounts you'd think it was all skittles, but I'm sure there's
a hitch somewhere!" mused Lorraine.
Rosemary, with her big eyes and bigger aspirations, had always been
more or less of a problem. The family had decided emphatically that she
was its genius. They looked for great things from her when her course at
the College should be finished. They all experienced a sort of
second-hand credit in her anticipated achievements. It is so nice to
have someone else to do the clever things while we ourselves wear a
reflected glory thereby. Mrs. Forrester, mother-proud of her musical
chick, could not refrain from a little gentle boasting about her
daughter's talents. She told everybody that she liked girls to have
careers, and that parents ought to make every effort to let a gifted
child have a chance. In Lorraine's estimation Rosemary's future was to
be one round of triumph, ending possibly in a peal of wedding bells.
Lorraine was fond of making up romances, and had evolved a
highly-satisfactory hero for her sister. He was always tall, but his
eyes varied in colour, and he sometimes had a moustache and sometimes
was clean-shaven. Though his personal appearance varied from day to day,
his general qualities persisted, and he invariably possessed a
shooting-box in Scotland, where he would be prepared to extend a warm
welcome to his bride's younger sister.
Meantime, though Rosemary had been a whole term at the college, her
family had no means of judging her progress. She had diligently
practised scales, exercises and arpeggios, but had steadfastly refused
to sing any songs to them. Vainly they had begged for old favourites;
she was obdurate to the point of obstinacy.
"Signor Arezzo doesn't want me to! I'm studying on his special method,
and he's most particular about it. He keeps everybody at exercises for
the first term. When I go back he says perhaps he'll let me have just
_one_ song."
"But surely it couldn't spoil your voice to sing 'My Happy Garden'?"
demanded her father, much disappointed.
"He forbade it _entirely_!" declared Rosemary emphatically.
This new attitude of Rosemary's of hiding her light under a bushel was
trying to Lorraine. She had been looking forward to showing off her
clever musical sister to Morland. She had expected the two to become
chums at once, but they did nothing of the sort. Rosemary treated
Morland with the airy patronage that a girl, who has just begun to mix
with older men, sometimes metes out to a boy of seventeen. She was not
nearly as much impressed by his playing as Lorraine had anticipated.
"He ought to learn from Signor Rassuli!" she commented. "Nobody who
hasn't studied on _his_ method can possibly have a touch!"
"But Morland's exquisite touch is his great point!" persisted Lorraine
indignantly.
"I can't stand the boy!" yawned Rosemary.
It is always most amazing, when we like a person exceedingly ourselves,
to find that somebody else has formed a different opinion. With all his
shortcomings, Lorraine appreciated Morland. He often missed his
appointments, and was generally late for everything, but when he turned
up he played her accompaniments as no one else ever played them.
Moreover, he was a very pleasant companion, and full of fun in a mild
artistic sort of fashion of his own. He was certainly one of the central
figures in the beautiful, shiftless, Bohemian household on the hill.
Lorraine had a sense that, when he went, the Castleton family would lose
its corner stone. Yet some day he would be bound to go.
"I expect to be called up in March!" he announced one day.
[Illustration: "EVERYTHING'S GONE WRONG!" DECLARED LORRAINE TRAGICALLY]
Lorraine looked at him critically. Morland, with his ripply hair and the
features of a Fra Angelico angel, would seem out of place in khaki. His
dreamy, unpunctual ways and general lack of concentration would be
highly exasperating to his drill-sergeant. She wondered what would
happen when, as usual, he turned up late. Artistic temperaments did not
fit in well with the stern realities of life. She had a feeling that
they ought to be exempted.
Music, this term, was more to the fore than usual in Lorraine's horizon.
After Christmas a fresh teacher had come to the school, who gave lessons
in French, violin, and piano. Her name was Madame Bertier, and she was a
Russian by birth, though her husband was a Belgian at present interned
in Germany.
She was a new arrival at Porthkeverne, and had rooms in the artists'
quarter of the town. She spent her mornings at The Gables, and filled up
her afternoons by taking private pupils. Like most Russians, she had a
charming manner, and was brimming over with talent. She was a
striking-looking woman, with a clear, pale complexion, flashing hazel
eyes, and carefully arranged coiffure. Her delicate hands were
exquisitely manicured. She dressed becomingly, and wore handsome rings.
Her foreign accent was decidedly pretty.
Most of the school, and the Sixth Form in particular, went crazy over
her. They admired her frocks, her hair, her earrings, and the whole
charming air of "finish" about her. It became the fashion of the moment
to adore her. Those girls who took private music lessons from her were
counted lucky. The members of the French class vied with one another in
presenting offerings of violets or early snowdrops. She accepted the
little bouquets as gracefully as a prima donna.
"She's _the_ most absolutely topping person I've ever met!" affirmed
Vivien, who was one of her most ardent worshippers.
"Um--well enough!" said Lorraine, whose head was not turned by the new
idol. "She's not quite my style, somehow. I always feel she's out for
admiration."
"Well, she deserves to be admired."
"Not so consciously, though."
"I think she's too precious for words. It's something even to be in the
same room with her!" gushed Audrey. "I've scored over you, Vivien,
because she's written two verses in my album, and she only wrote one in
yours!"
"Yes, but it was original poetry in mine!"
"How do you know, when it's in Russian?"
"She said so, at any rate."
"Oh! I must ask her to put in an original one for me."
"She's coming to tea with us to-morrow."
"You lucker!"
There seemed no lengths to which the girls would not go. Several of them
kept sentimental diaries in which were recorded the doings and sayings
of their deity. Audrey's ran as follows:--
_Jan. 15th._--A new sun rose in the sky, and the world of school
has changed for me. I could do nothing but gaze.
_Jan. 16th._--Her name is Madame Bertier.
_Jan. 17th._--Her Christian name is Olga Petrovna.
_Jan. 18th._--She looked directly at me, and I blushed.
_Jan. 19th._--To-day she smiled upon me.
_Jan. 22nd._--To-day she accepted my flowers.
_Jan. 23rd._--A black day. Vivien has engrossed her entirely.
_Jan. 24th._--I have asked Mother to call upon her.
_Jan. 25th._--The world dark. Mother too busy to call.
_Jan. 30th._--Mother called to-day. Hooray!
_Feb. 1st._--She is coming to tea. I feel I am treading on air.
_Feb. 2nd._--She has been to our house. It was the happiest day
of my life.
Though she came as a stranger to Porthkeverne, Madame Bertier very soon
found friends. Her attractive personality and her musical talent gained
her the entrée into the artistic and literary circles of the town. Two
principal figure-painters asked her to sit for her portrait, and her
violin was much in demand for concerts at the Arts Club. Like most of
the Bohemian residents of the place, she found her way to the studio at
Windy Howe, and a pastel drawing of her profile soon stood on Mr.
Castleton's easel. She did not win universal favour, however, at the
house on the hill. Claudia, walking from school one day with Lorraine,
exploded upon the subject.
"I can't bear the woman! I don't know what Vivien and the others see in
her. I call it very flashy to wear all that jewellery at school. She's
always up at our house, and Morland's fearfully taken with her. They
play duets by the hour together. Father's going to paint her as 'The
Angel of Victory' in that huge cartoon he's designing for the Chagstead
Town Hall. I don't think she's a scrap like an angel! She pats Lilith
and Constable on the head, just for show, but she looks terrified if
they come near her smart frocks. Violet detests her. It's the one thing
Violet and I agree about. We've been squabbling over everything else
lately. It's a weary world!"
"Madame's fascinating enough on the surface," agreed Lorraine
thoughtfully, "but she's not the kind of woman I admire. Somehow I don't
quite trust her. Do you believe in first impressions? So do I. Well, my
first feeling about her was distinctly non-attractive. We ran away from
each other mentally, like two pieces of magnetized steel. She's very
sweet to me at my music lessons; but I'm sure it's all put on, and she
doesn't care an atom. It's an entirely different thing from my Saturday
lessons."
One great reason why Lorraine had not, with the rest of the school,
fallen under the spell of the fascinating Russian lady, was the intense
affection she had formed for her art teacher. She could not worship at
both shrines, and she felt strongly that Margaret Lindsay was infinitely
more worthy of admiration. The studio down by the harbour was still her
artistic Mecca. She had a carte blanche invitation to go whenever she
liked. She turned in there one Friday afternoon on her way from school.
"Carina," she said, flopping into a basket-chair by the fireside, "I'm
just fed up to-day!"
The friendship, which had begun conventionally with the orthodox "Miss
Lindsay", now expressed itself by "Margaret", "Peggy", or such pet terms
as "Carina" and "Love-Angel".
"What's the matter?" asked her friend, squeezing a little extra
flake-white on to her palette, and putting the cap on the tube again.
"It isn't often _you're_ fed up with life!"
"Everything's gone wrong!" declared Lorraine tragically. "My head aches,
and I didn't know my literature, and Miss Janet glared at me, and maths.
were a failure this morning too, and I felt scratchy and squabbled with
everybody. I'm afraid I was rather hard on some of those kids, though
they were the limit! Carina, when _you_ were at school, did you
sometimes have a fling out all round, or were you always good?"
"I confess," said Carina humorously, "that, when I trod the slippery
paths of youth, I often flopped flat, and made an exhibition of myself.
I don't think I was a nice child at all!"
"I call you a saint now! I wonder what most saints were like when they
were young."
"Many of them began as sinners. I expect even St. Francis of Assisi
howled when he was a baby, and smacked his nurse. We all feel more or
less scratchy sometimes. What you want, child, is a good blow on the
hills. If it should be as fine and mild to-morrow as it was this
morning, we'll have our painting lesson out of doors. Bring your thick
coat and a wrap and we'll go right up towards Tangy Point, take our
lunch and our sketch-books with us, find a sheltered place in the sun,
and paint some pretty little bit on the cliffs. You'll go back to school
on Monday feeling at peace with all mankind, or rather girlkind. Do you
like my prescription?"
"Rather! You're the best doctor out! It'll be glorious to get away from
everybody for a day. I have too much of Monica on Saturdays as a rule.
I've an instinct it's going to be fine to-morrow!"
Porthkeverne had its share of sea-fog in winter, but it also had its
quota of sunshine, and this particular February day turned out a
foretaste of spring. Birds were singing everywhere as teacher and pupil,
with lunch and sketching materials in their satchels, set off on their
tramp over the moors. They crossed the common, where Lorraine had stood
among the thistles for "Kilmeny", and came to "the little grey church on
the windy hill", which Mr. Castleton had chosen as the scene for his
illustrations to "The Forsaken Merman". The sound of the organ came
through the open door, and, peeping in, Lorraine could see Morland's
golden hair gleaming like a saint's halo in the chancel, and caught a
glimpse of Landry's perfect profile as he sat listening in the dusty
gallery.
"Shall we go and speak to them?" asked Margaret Lindsay.
"No," said Lorraine emphatically. "I'm not friends with Morland to-day.
He promised to practise an accompaniment with me last night, and he
never turned up. I shall just leave him to himself. He's a bad boy!"
"He has his limitations!" agreed Margaret.
The breath of early spring was in the air as they walked through the
cluster of houses termed by courtesy "the village", and, climbing a
stile, took the path along the cliffs. On such days the sap seems to
rise in human beings as well as in the vegetable world. Lorraine
literally danced along. Margaret Lindsay's artist eyes were busy
registering impressions of sunlight on pearly stretches of sea, or
effects of green sward and grey rock in shadow.
"The Cornish coast in February is perfect," she decided, "and it's so
delightfully quiet. Heaven defend me from the 'fashionable resort',
which is some people's idea of the seaside. I read the most delicious
poem once. It began--
She was a lady of high degree,
A poor and unknown artist he.
'Paint me,' she said, 'a view of the sea.'
So he painted the sea as it looked the day
When Aphrodite arose from its spray,
And as she gazed on its face the while,
It broke in its countless dimpled smile.
'What a poky, stupid picture!' said she.
'It isn't anything like the sea!'
The wretched artist, in several more verses of poetry which I forget,
paints the sea in every possible effect of storm and calm, all to the
scorn of the lady, who decides--
'I don't believe he _can_ paint the sea!'
But in desperation he makes a final dash for her patronage, probably,
poor man, being hard up.
So he painted a stretch of hot brown sand,
With a big hotel on either hand,
And a handsome pavilion for the band.
Not a trace of the water to be seen,
Except one faint little streak of green.
'What a perfectly _exquisite_ picture!' said she,
'The very _image_ of the sea!'"
Lorraine laughed.
"No one can accuse Tangy Point of pavilions and big hotels! We seem
quite alone in the world, up on these cliffs. I haven't seen a solitary
person since we left the village."
"Which remark has instantly conjured up somebody. Look on the shore
below us--no, to the left, down there. I see the flutter of a feminine
skirt--yes, and masculine trousers too! He's getting out of a boat, and
going to speak to her. Actually a kiss! How touching! They don't know
that there are spectators on the cliffs. We must be hundreds of feet
above them. They look like specks!"
"I brought the field-glasses," said Lorraine, opening her satchel. "It
brings that couple as close and clear as possible. Why, I know that grey
costume and that crimson toque. It's Madame Bertier, as large as life!
Look for yourself. Carina!"
Margaret Lindsay readjusted the glasses to her sight and focused them on
the figures below.
"There's not a doubt about it!" she pronounced. "I can almost hear her
broken English! Who's the man?"
Lorraine stood frowning with concentrated thought.
"That's what is puzzling me! His face is so absolutely familiar. I
_know_ I've seen him before, somewhere, and yet, for the life of me, I
can't remember where. It's one of those aggravating half-memories that
haunt one. I'd like to try throwing down a stone to attract their
attention."
"I shouldn't on any account. Let's leave them to it, and go and find a
place to take our sketch. We shall lose this effect of sunshine, if
we're not quick. Madame Bertier doesn't interest me enough to make me
waste valuable time in watching her flirtations."
"But I wish I could remember who the man is!" ruminated Lorraine, with
knitted brows.
"He's certainly not worth bothering your head about! Come along and
sketch!"